meadows of Physcus, and to the Neaethus, where all fair herbs bloom,
red goat-wort, and endive, and fragrant bees-wort.

Battus. Ah, wretched Aegon, thy very kine will go to Hades, while
thou too art in love with a luckless victory, and thy pipe is flecked
with mildew, the pipe that once thou madest for thyself!

Corydon. Not the pipe, by the nymphs, not so, for when he went to
Pisa, he left the same as a gift to me, and I am something of a
player. Well can I strike up the air of Glauce and well the strain
of Pyrrhus, and the praise of Croton I sing, and Zacynthus is a
goodly town, and Lacinium that fronts the dawn! There Aegon the
boxer, unaided, devoured eighty cakes to his own share, and there he
caught the bull by the hoof, and brought him from the mountain, and
gave him to Amaryllis. Thereon the women shrieked aloud, and the
neatherd,--he burst out laughing.

Battus. Ah, gracious Amaryllis! Thee alone even in death will we
ne'er forget. Dear to me as my goats wert thou, and thou art dead!
Alas, too cruel a spirit hath my lot in his keeping.

Corydon. Dear Battus, thou must needs be comforted. The morrow
perchance will bring better fortune. The living may hope, the dead
alone are hopeless. Zeus now shows bright and clear, and anon he
rains.

Battus. Enough of thy comforting! Drive the calves from the lower
ground, the cursed beasts are grazing on the olive-shoots. Hie on,
white face.